“He had already disposed of all the papers, and favorably,” he said.
“But—”
“And not only that,” pursued Bertram. “He had issued orders by telegraph, that it was impossible to countermand. It was at the Forty Second Street depôt I found him at last. He was just on the point of starting for the west.”
“And has he gone?”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Sylvester walked slowly to the window. It was raining drearily without, but he did not notice the falling drops or raise his eyes to the leaden skies.
“Did you meet any one?” he asked at length. “Any one that you know, I mean, or who knows you?”
“No one but Mr. Stuyvesant.”
“Mr. Stuyvesant!”
“Yes sir,” returned Bertram, dropping his eyes before his uncle’s astonished glance. “I was coming out of a house in Broad Street when he passed by and saw me, or at least I believed he saw me. There is no mistaking him, sir, for any one else; besides it is a custom of his I am told, to saunter through the down town streets after the warehouses are all closed for the night. He enjoys the quiet I suppose, finds food for reflection in the sleeping aspect of our great city.” There was gloom in Bertram’s tone; his uncle looked at him curiously.